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Weak IV

22 January 2020

No. 745 (cartoon)

You know not what you do.

I do know what you don’t.

23 January 2020

Frost Chasers

They call themselves frost chasers; I calls ’em nincompoops. I’m talking about the cliché seekers who risk sleep deprivation, frostbite, and hypothermia to go outside before dawn to photograph transient frozen landscapes before the first rays of the sun melt the ephemeral crystalline lattices. That’s a ridiculous sacrifice just to duplicate an image that’s been made a jillion times.

Having said that, I have to admit that I succumbed to the visual temptation to photograph something real purdy this morning. Over breakfast, I noticed an elaborate pattern of intricate ice crystals on the studio window. I grabbed a real camera with a ridiculously sharp lens, walked a dozen steps if that, made an exposure, then returned to my coffee.

I still think the frost chasers are a derisible lot, but when the frost chases me, well, that’s different.

24 January 2020

Persuading Idiots

Stephan tried to end our argument, er, lively debate, by citing Mark Twain, “No amount of evidence will ever persuade an idiot.”

That reminded me of another Twain’s other quotations, “It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than to open it and remove all doubt.” The relationship had nothing to do with our petty squabble; the commonality was that Twain never said either of those witticisms.

The same goes for “Never let schooling interfere with your education,” “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow,” et cetera.

One of the de facto rules of quotations is that scholars and researchers eventually attribute famous remarks to famous people, despite proof to the contrary.

Yogi Berra was well aware of the phenomenon and protested, “I really didn’t say everything I said.” Almost no one believed him.

I wonder who first said that no amount of evidence will ever persuade an idiot? My guess is that no one coined the maxim; it’s one of those creations with a thousand parents.

25 January 2020

Burns Night on New Year’s Day

Oh dear; I’m sitting on the horns of a dilemma and it’s most uncomfortable. I’m in a predicament that would have had even Confucius scratching his bony old noggin.

Andrew’s coming over to my place tonight to drink whisky, eat faux haggis, and celebrate Burns Night. I forgot that I already invited Walter and Colleen for a lunar new year party. I was stuck, because one can’t pay homage to the Great chieftain o the puddin’-race on a holiday that’s almost an exclusively Asian event.

I thought about it for a while, thought about it harder, then thought about it even more until I finally figgered it out. It may or may not be true that one can’t combine the two, but I can. By the end of the evening after we’ve gorged on haggis and drunken tofu, washed it down with Islay whisky and baijiu, enjoyed firecracker pyrotechnics, and pocketed our red envelopes stuffed with counterfeit currency, I’m sure we’ll have concluded that Robert Burns and Lao Tzu may have been twins separated at birth.

And even if I’m wrong, no one’s going to remember in the morning, so I’m off! (But not by much.)

And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

26 January 2020

A Short, Dry Year

Colin poured himself a glass of wine when he arrived at my studio. That’s fine; I like my friends to make themselves at home, and it’s economically trivial to be generous with cheap wine. But ...

“Didn’t you tell me you were going to stop drinking for a year?” I asked.

“I did and I did,” he replied.

“But I was at your cocktail party less than a month ago,” I protested. “I admit my memory is peccable, but I’m sure you were drinking rather a lot at the time.”

“That was in 2019,” he explained. “I stopped drinking on the first of January, and didn’t touch a drop until the following new year’s day, which happened to be yesterday.”

“You can’t use the Gregorian new year and the lunar new year simultaneously,” I objected.

“What do you mean I can’t?” he continued, “I’m quite certain that I just did.”

I had to admit Colin was right. I too appreciate the reality I’ve fabricated for myself, especially since the standard-issue one on offer is rather shabby at best. I decided not to argue with him, especially after he pulled out a bottle of good wine he brought to celebrate going for a year without a drink.

27 January 2020

Kobe Bryant

Kobe Bryant, his daughter, and seven other people died yesterday when the helicopter in which they were traveling failed to fly through a steep hill.

I was morbidly amused that so many people were shocked by the untimely death of a wealthy, popular, forty-one-year-old retired basketball player. It was as if some unwritten law of nature was broken: no one who’s rich, famous, and young can die until at least one of the three conditions no longer applies.

The tragedy turned to farce once the sports announcers joined in the mourning circus with their professional insights. Here’s my favorite so far ...

“You know, Jim,” some idiot babbled, “Even twenty years of experience as one of the greatest basketball players of all times can’t really prepare you for a horrifical helicopter crash.”

And then there are the other anonymous fatalities. I suppose it would be easy enough to discover their identities, but almost no one’s going to bother. I’m not going to worry about how my death is noted, since by then I will be biologically incapable of knowing let alone caring.

My advice to anyone concerned about having a popular obituary is this: never get in a plane or a helicopter with anyone famous. Should the flight end in a fiery, cataclysmic blast, the headline will certainly be something like, “Celebrated Person and some other people died a deadly death.”

28 January 2020

Improbable Snow Field

I’m going to go out of character and start with lots o’ facts. It snowed here in Santa Fe, New Mexico, over a week ago. Meteorologists haven’t reported any precipitation since then. Water freezes at zero degrees. The temperature has been well above zero every day since the modest snowfall.

I am now reminded of why I eschew facts: they’re as boring as they are tedious, and vice versa. I’ll get to the crux of the biscuit after just one more: there’s still snow all over the place.

How can snow defy physics?! That’s what I asked Jerry, but his daughter Megan answered before he could say a word, as teenagers are wont to do.

“The government is seeding clouds with secret chemicals to make it snow,” she reported. “I’ve seen actual videos that show the chemsnow doesn’t melt even with a welding torch.”

I can’t argue with Megan, the princess of conspiracy theories, or her “actual videos,” so I didn’t.

I knew she was spouting nonsense, but I was still mystified by the snow I photographed in direct sunshine on a relatively warm day.

I shrugged, and marveled yet again that my ignorance provides such great entertainment.

29 January 2020

The War on Weevils

Suzette always throws exceptional dinner parties, and last night’s feast was no exception, but for all the wrong reasons.

She presents a new dish at every supper; last night’s treat was Sweet Potato Surprise, roasted orange taters in a honey, sesame, and garlic glaze. Everything was going swimmingly until Juanita cut into her spud and shrieked. I knew exactly what the surprise was, so I grabbed her plate and took it to the kitchen.

Hasn’t it happened to all of us at one time or another? Yes, Sweet Potato Weevils claimed another victim. Juanita eventually regained her composure, but I doubt she’ll ever fully recover from looking into the beady little eyes of the nefarious agricultural menace.

Samantha stopped speaking to me for years after one of the disgusting, evil weevils floated to the surface of the sweet potato soup I served her. I learned my lesson the hard way, and since then I never buy a huge sack of sweet potatoes unless it contains a safety certificate signed by David A. Robinson, the agricultural commissioner of Merced County, California.

Anderson, a Fellow at the National Institute for Integral Potato Studies, takes the Sweet Potato Weevil menace very seriously indeed. The photograph of him in his office says it all. First, it’s not an office; it’s The Weevil War Room. He’s wearing a War on Weevils t-shirt, and the banner above his desk proclaims “3,471 Days Without a Weevil.” That’s almost a decade!

Unlike most of my yarns, this one has a clear message:

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©2020 David Glenn Rinehart